


One Year, One Month

by raedbard



Category: The West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-28
Updated: 2007-08-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 23:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raedbard/pseuds/raedbard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January to January, things change. Or: how a boy meets his boss, loves him, loses him and gets him back again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year, One Month

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-S1 to 1.12 'He Shall From Time to Time'.

**1.** January

In January he doesn't know, or so he says. There are other occupying his mind after all - new desks and tvs which have never been switched on now suddenly in danger of blowing up because they are switched on twenty-four hours a day, a new laptop he buys with his first paycheck from the White House, and a new boss.

Well, not exactly new. Toby's shadow is cast long in Sam's life, has been for half a year now. Sam dreams about him more than once.

And Toby was never new; Toby he felt he knew right from the start.

**2.** February

He's still trying to remember that the kid isn't stupid. He think he's probably trying to forget that the kid is frighteningly sharp. He still keeps the first speech folded in quarters in his wallet and no longer needs to read it, though it helps to have the paper unfolded when he is trying to remember Sam's voice.

He never knew a voice could be an aphrodisiac.

He never accepted before that a man could be a) beautiful to the exclusion of b) stupid.

The degree to which Sam Seaborn proves the rule frightens him.

He keeps on shouting, loudly.

**3.** March

He hates Chicago. It's fucking cold and the wind nearly knocked him onto the El track. His feet are nearly frozen off. And all Toby can do is chuckle and smoke a long series of vile cigars. Sam wants to hit him. Hard.

Having a good time?  
No.  
You did ask.  
I didn't ask for Chicago in the middle of nuclear winter, Toby.  
Well, no.  
Can't we just accept that this fucking train isn't going to arrive?  
Get a hotel?  
I can't stand here much longer.  
How much you got on you?  
A dollar sixty, Toby.  
Fine.  
Fine.  
C'mon.  
_Finally_.

**4.** April

It's easier not to talk about it. But Toby knows a pattern when he sees one.

Nights at Sam's tend to be slower, ponderous. 'Lovelorn' is the first word which leaps onto Toby's tongue. He fucks Sam slowly, because that seems to be what he wants. Little whimpers, the way his fingers twist in the sheets, the way the sweat pulls his hair into little strands on the back of his neck. He seems happy.

Nights in his own bed taste of violence.

Sam screams, once or twice. It only makes Toby harder.

My bed, my rules.  
You're the boss.

**5.** May

They put the window in last week. Sam had to move his second bookcase; Toby most of his 'Bartlet for New Hampshire' files. Now there is a space to be filled in with coming and going. He can see Toby without moving from his desk. A flash of collar, a nervous twist on the spot. Sam smiles.

It's a little like someone knew.

The ball thing isn't his idea.

Sometimes the thump of the thing against their window sounds like words. They aren't all orders.

And sometimes Sam thinks about throwing it back. He wonders what that would sound like.

**6.** June

His divorce papers come through for the first days of summer. If he's meant to be happy it doesn't occur to him. He still thinks about her. He doesn't tell Sam that; he doesn't need to.

You want to talk about it?  
No.  
Okay.  
Okay.  
Toby?   
What?  
You can. If you want to.  
Go to sleep, Sam.

Sam sighs and it is like someone punching him in the lungs. It doesn't surprise him that he is still incapable of doing this right. It does surprise him that he cares.

He waits until Sam is asleep. He strokes his hair gently.

**7.** July

The Rose Garden is overrated, Toby says. Sam thinks it's beautiful.

Come for a walk.  
A walk?  
A walk.  
Okay.

He stands on the little bridge and watches the water, how it shines with the sunlight. He can't stop smiling. He looks up at Toby, who is looking up at him, eyes dark above a yellow legal pad. Sam grins:

What?  
Come down from there.

His voice sounds thick, but it's a smile he is trying to hide.

There's no-one here.  
So wh --

His mouth tastes of the blue sky and the pale water and the empty page. Of possibility.

**8.** August

Boy meets Boss.  
Boy falls in love with Boss.  
Boss cuts Boy loose.

Toby sighs and balls up the fifth page from a depleted pad and tosses it into the trashcan. Lights the trashcan on fire. Watches the paper burn for a little. Puts out the fire.

He sighs again. There's no-one here tonight. In the middle of DC's hottest August for a decade they all seem to remember that they have places they'd rather be. Even Sam. And if he sets the building on fire he'll be dead before the President makes it out of bed.

He starts again.

**9.** September

She makes things easier, briefly. Then much, much harder. But he likes her - sharp eyes which do not dull even after half a bag of pot. She pokes him in the ribs with her perfect nails and he does not mistake it for love. He really never does know when they're looking.

Toby doesn't look upset, and that is only the second worst thing.

He uses her name three or four times in the conversation and he still says 'this girl', 'a hooker', 'you know you can't'.

His eyes have gone dull, mud-brown. Sam starts missing him almost at once.

**10.** October

October is a month of second chances.

She sees him on her doorstep and foolishly (he thinks) lets him in.

They end up on the kitchen floor. She pulls buttons off his shirt, rips a hole in his tie, bites his lip: because anger always was the same thing as lust. He feels safe with her fury, not least because he understands why she's angry; why she hates him.

Violence doesn't hide with her; he gives as good as he gets. Her wrists are red were his hands have held her. He is not gentle.

She doesn't kiss him goodbye.

**11.** November

It starts snowing early.

Its starts snowing paper.

Sam clears the snow drift every morning just to get to his desk. His eyes hurt from reading and his wrist from making notes and his head from the task. But his heart is lighter than it has been for months. If they get one thing right, he hopes it's this: Mendoza, and a smooth confirmation.

He is everywhere and nowhere these days. He has been getting increasingly monosyllabic and the only thing that helps is cherry pie. Sam has stocked up.

His heart still hurts. Sam can feel it from here.

**12.** December

You went missing.  
I did.  
I heard about the thing.  
Yeah.  
That was great, Toby.  
I'm told no-one believes it was really me.  
I'll tell them.  
Okay.

Pause.

It's cold in here.  
I hadn't noticed.  
Your hands are freezing.  
Yours aren't.  
I can see my breath.  
Stop breathing so much.

Pause.

You taste the same.  
You expect me to ... taste different?  
I don't know. Maybe.  
You're freakish. Utterly freakish.  
Thank you.  
It's not something to be proud of, Sam.

Pause.

Still cold?  
No.  
Sam?  
Yeah?  
Let go of my hand.  
Toby!  
Shut up.

A laugh, a kiss, warm, safe. Pause.

**13.** January

'State of the Union'. Sam smiles, or thinks he smiles. He can't actually feel any of his muscles, even the ones in his face.

It's so cold; the tips of his fingers have disappeared.

Toby'll be back soon. Probably with pie.

His bed is warm, but not as warm as his body. Sam is thinking of the long, hot length of Toby's back. Happy.

The speech is over and neither of them wanted to be alone. And perhaps this is a tradition they are making: a speech, a party, a lonely pair, bed, sex, pie.

Sam could live with that.


End file.
